'My sons will kill me for what they need, for what they desire, and I will do the same to mine, to them. That,' Ranveer had said, 'is the blood that runs in my veins.'

Leandras wondered, if the man had killed both his traitorous sons with more pride than anger at the heart of it. 'Ranveer Borkhan is a man of principle and reason,' his mother had said. 'He would kill to set an example, stab you in the back over principle, and leave you behind if it's practical.'

'A cold, heartless man, then,' he'd concluded.

His mother had made no reply. She'd smiled a smile he didn't understand. A long, complicated history there, carried by a gesture so simple most people would have missed.

Not by him, however. Not by a son who had been looking for that history.

'What would you rather hear?' The man who might be his father had asked. 'That your mother killed your real father who'd used and abused her for twenty years, or that your real father was never here to begin with because he had other agendas more important than you?'

What, he'd asked himself a hundred times since then, would have been the less painful truth? Did it matter if he knew what happened when the end result wouldn't change?

It probably didn't, but dead bodies needed to be discovered before one stopped searching, and some questions needed answers before they were left behind. He wondered if he would live to find the answer after tonight. It was likely that he would survive, but guessing what Fate had in mind was like shooting at birds blindfolded with a bow you didn't know how to use. Death, like life, arrived with no warnings. If you were wise, you'd see time like sand in an unmeasured hourglass with one end open. His mother's last husband had, lest one forget, died relatively young in his sleep.

Which was why he was paying attention to Ranveer Borkhan when he should be thinking of the fight that lay ahead, while the man––not that he was surprised––might have already forgotten he was there.

"He won't notice you."

He turned to see his mother standing with her arms crossed over her chest, looking at the same man who seemed to be reading something in the wind from behind the empty wooden crates that shielded them. "I'm not––"

"Niroza used to say," she said, ignoring the vain attempt of a son trying to conceal his motives from the mother who'd raised him, "that the only things Ranveer Borkhan ever sees are his enemies and those who get in the way. If you want to live through a fight with him in it, expect to see only his back, or you will be dead by his blade."

"And yet people will follow him into battle, and die for him in battle."

There was no moon in the sky, not enough light for him to see, but he thought he saw her smiling. She said, "Some people are like fire, and most insects follow the light to die in its glory."

"Are we to be insects then, in this war to come?"

"To him, we all are."

If there had been bitterness in those words, he didn't hear it. He imagined her smiling, still, with the way she sounded. "It's a waste of time to look for a father figure in that man. Ranveer Borkhan leaves no room for friends or family, he never had."

Or lovers, he wanted to add. Didn't. Too much history there, too much pain, and lingering memories of betrayals. No room, she had said. But Ranveer Borkhan had brought a bodyguard who had been an old friend, and a woman who had cost him the throne.

Which meant there were rooms, after all, weren't there? For lovers, for friends, perhaps, also, for family. He didn't know why he wanted to look for a father in this man, but when you were given a chance to choose a father, and the last man had failed, and Ranveer Borkhan was who he was, and was also a choice...

Am I, Leandras thought, just another moth being lured to the flame?

"No room, Mother?" he decided to ask this time. "In his life? Or in yours?"

***

'Come with me, Lucidra.' She could still remember the words, the way they had been spoken, and the knifing chill of the wind that came through the porthole of her cabin. She remembered the moonlight that touched his skin, how it lit up his nose, his mouth, his cheek bones. The taste and feel of all those things. The scent of him that came with them. The nakedness of his body that was still warm from their lovemaking, and how she thought then, that lovemaking was the worst word to describe what they'd done.

They'd never made love. What they did, at night, during daytime, in her cabin, in his, on a beach, behind a rock, under a tree, was the fulfillment of needs and desires––both common conditions for any healthy man or woman––by someone who was available, compatible, and convenient.

You could ask someone to spend a lifetime with you for those things, if they were all you believe you'd get in life. It wasn't wrong. Ranveer could be vicious and wrong, but he wasn't trying to wrong or hurt her. He was giving himself a choice not to.

'Go with you?' she'd asked, knowing the answer. 'To where?'

'To Rasharwi. To the Black Tower.'

'As your woman? Your wife?'

'It would be the only way I can protect you,' he said, logically, practically, staring at the ceiling or something in his head far away. She thought he was most handsome when he did that, with both arms behind his head, not around her. 'I will have to marry others. For leverage, for power.'

'As all princes and kings do.'

He nodded. 'You understand it, then.'

'I've lived longer than you, do not forget.'

He smiled. A proud, respectful, vicious man. A man she wanted in her life. A man who was leaving, for a different life. 'Will you come, Lucidra?'

He wasn't begging. Ranveer never begged. He gave her a choice, to follow, or to become his enemy, or to be someone who gets in the way. Most people weren't given a choice, not from him. She appreciated that.

'What did my brother say?' He would have given Niroza the same choice, she knew, before it was given to her.

A small silence. A wound being opened in the moonlight that came through another opening. 'You already know his answer.'

She did know the answer. She knew her brother. He did too. Sometimes she wondered if they'd slept together, for how close they were. She wasn't the only one who wondered. Men on a ship full of men for months at sea without promises of tomorrow did what they could to live while they could, and Ranveer Borkhan was a handsome man and a possibility.

'Rasharwi has no sea,' she said, simply. 'I want to die at sea.' She didn't need to think about it for long. She knew what she wanted in life, knew the consequences, too, as much as he did, what her decision would require him to do to Niroza, to her.

He smiled. There could be, she thought, so much pain in a smile full of pride, of admiration, of acceptance, for the blade that cuts you open and leaves behind an ugly scar. 'He said that, too,'

It was the last thing he'd said to her. No more questions. He wasn't a man who offered second chances, and she wasn't a woman who took them.

Or one who regretted her decisions, even for poor ones.

'No room, Mother?' Leandras had asked. 'In his life? Or in yours?'

She thought about that for a time. She said, "No room for either, not for who we are."

"People can change," said Leandras.

Perhaps. But change was possible when love was treasured above all else, but love was neither treasured nor present for either of them.

"Focus, Leandras," she told him, changing the subject. "Be ready. When he pulls back his shoulders, you have about three heartbeats before he gives the signal."

***

'Every good sailor knows how to read the wind. The pressure it makes against your ear, the sound and smell that comes with it, the taste it carries to your palette as you breathe through your nose, your mouth, what it does to things in the distance. Pay enough attention, and you can always tell what's happening before it catches up with you.'

To a certain point, Ranveer thought, remembering those words he'd been taught a long time ago. Niroza had always been the best at wind reading between the three of them, and he the least accurate. He ought to have let Lucidra do the reading, but there were things to look for he hadn't told her about. Still, a few years spent on board was plenty to learn the skill well enough to use it. Having anticipated the change in wind direction had won him the battle at Vilarhiti. It had also won him many others, and had been a part of his success at every campaign he'd ever led.

And every time, Niroza had been there, reminding him how to read the wind.

'I'm no one's second,' he'd said to the man who taught him how to win battles and wars. Niroza had smiled then. Great men didn't argue with lesser ones, and Niroza Naeem was no one's second––at wind reading, at commanding a fleet, at timing, at patience, at strategy, and at winning the hearts and loyalty of the men he led. A priceless man to have if you wanted to build an empire and unite the peninsula, one he was willing––and had needed––to have by his side at any cost.

One who would rather not get involved, at whatever cost.

'Different temperaments,' had been Niroza's explanation. Simple reason for a simple, brilliant man.

They'd parted with an understanding––something he didn't share with Lucidra. Different temperaments there, too. He did wonder if Niroza would want him dead now, if he was freeing another threat tonight. Being locked up for twenty years could change the toughest of men.

A gamble, to be sure, but he was already gambling with the wind, the timing, and one man's decision to win. Life was a gamble anyway, no matter what you did. You'd die wanting if you wait for safety guaranteed.

'Too much of a risk, my lord,' Jarem still would have said if he were alive. Also different temperament––one he should have noticed before allowing the man to do what he'd done. A mistake of his own, that. A good leader anticipated and made rooms for human errors and differences in temperament, Eli had written in his journal.

Too much of a risk, Jarem would have said. But you'd have come with me either way.

The wind whispered and withered in direction. He drew a breath once through his nose and then another through his mouth. A faint smell of goat's blood in the air. A taste of salt coming from the slightly off direction from the sea at his back. The sound of insects that suddenly changed in pattern.

Ranveer pulled back his shoulders (an old habit he hoped no one noticed), took three heartbeats to calm, and gave the signal.

***

Saracen watched the prison gate with an excitement his god might consider sinful. But what man could stand calmly during an event that might define his life and make him a legend? He was mortal, after all––a mortal who had been given a chance to kill a god among men, so to speak. Who would have thought the unruliness of his subordinates would lead to this compensation that turned out to benefit him beyond his wildest dreams? This was bigger than defeating his own brother. It was a gift from Marakai, a god-given miracle, he was certain, for his lifelong piety and obedience.

And he had done what was required. Saracen prided himself as someone who never relies on miracles alone (such persons didn't deserve them), and had brought with him six hundred men, more than suggested, to capture one man––six hundred of his best, to be exact. An unreasonably excessive force, from what di Amarra had estimated Muradi's number to be, not to mention difficult to move and hide without alerting the entire city and the man he'd come to capture. It was sheer luck that they'd found an old warehouse close enough for him to see what was happening through the window from the third floor. Another miracle there, for sure.

The fact that he still didn't know why di Amarra wanted him to capture the former Salar instead of alerting the city guards to do the job bothered him a little, but he figured a complicated man like di Amarra must have had his own complicated reasons. He might not be clever enough to understand it (he was learning), but he was clever enough to know it wasn't about making him do the work for free. Stil,it was an opportunity to make a name for himself, and opportunities of a lifetime, even one as shady as this, should always be taken. Life was a gamble in any case, Eli had written. He was, one ought not forget, also backed by a god.

Saracen thanked Marakai the Sky Father once more, and waited impatiently for the first chapter of his legacy to begin.

***

There was smoke in the air, Niroza was certain, not from the kitchen or the fires lit by the guards at night. They didn't use whale oil for that, and he could smell it in the breeze that came through the window. Something was happening. Someone was creating a diversion. He had a feeling he knew who and what the diversion was for.

It's about time, he thought, smiling.

"What's with that smile?" said Akshay. The stone-faced captain of Samara's city guard took one glance at him before returning to his notes. The burn scars that covered half his face and a palm-sized area of his scalp seemed more vivid, as usual, when he wrote. Twenty years, and neither the man nor the freakishly neat leather-bound folder had changed much. The black uniform he wore was still spotless and wrinkle-free, so was the shine of his boots, just like the first day the Captain had begun the monthly routine visit to his cell. The visits, it was important to note, had occurred on the exact same day, at the exact same hour every month, and had so far been carried out with the exact same questions Niroza was certain the man had them written down somewhere in order. A disciplined, incorruptible man of strict routines who took his duty to the extreme. Niroza had decided he liked the man a long time ago.

"Smiling is a habit of mine. I thought you would have noticed that by now." He stretched that smile a little wider, out of principle. "You should try it sometimes. For size, at the very least."

"I have noticed." No smile from Akshay, of course. "The smile is not the same. What changed?" He swept his eyes around the room to look for change. He was the kind of man who noticed change, even in a single misplaced nail.

Not experienced enough, however, to notice a faint set of smells in the breeze.

"A new question. How refreshing." The questions had always been about his living condition in prison. Are you in good health? Did you talk to anyone? Are you given enough food and supplies? It didn't surprise him. He was an important prisoner. Things happened all the time in prison if no one checked on life-sentence convicts. His cell, thanks to Akshay's dedication to his job, was considerably large, well ventilated, and was cleaned as regularly as his clothing. A healer had been sent in to check on his overall health every year. His past illnesses had been reported and taken care of within the week the symptoms had shown up. His own punishment, however, and when necessary, had also been carried out to perfection. Akshay was the kind of man who'd whip you until he broke his own wrist if duty required it, never mind if no one was counting. He also carried a whip, always, out of principle.

"What changed, Niroza?" repeated Akshay.

He smiled again. It irritated the captain, which was the point. "What would you give me for that enlightenment?"

"You're not in the position to make demands."

"No information comes for free, Captain."

A small silence. A nod. "No, I suppose not."

The whip came out with a whisper before it ripped open the skin on his left cheek. He wiped the blood off with his thumb and licked it clean. "Accurate, as always."

"What changed?" said Akshay. He'd do that a hundred times, with the same face and the same tone until you gave him a satisfactory reply.

Akshay cracked the whip again when he didn't answer. It landed on the same side of his cheek, carved another, identical line under the first one. Niroza measured it, and clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now you're off by a finger."

Akshay flicked his wrist the third time. Niroza saw the whip as it uncoiled, caught it with his right hand, and leaped forward, wrapping his end of the whip around the captain's neck. A tug brought Akshay up face to face with him, close enough for Niroza to whisper in his ear, right below the scar. "You never told me how you got this burn. Perhaps we can exchange stories? What do you say?"

Akshay stared, tapping the knife he'd slipped between Niroza's thighs once, twice. "What changed?"

Damn, he loved this man. "Shhh..." Niroza raised a finger from his free hand. "Listen. Can you hear it?"

The smell of smoke was stronger now, and there were sounds of men running in the distance. Akshay was trained for that. The Captain paused, listened, and for once, he saw that expression change.

Niroza smiled again. "I wouldn't be here playing with me if I were you."

***

A/N: I know I've been absent for two months due to so many things in life but parts of it was because this sequence takes treading with extreme care because I'm a pantser and I don't touch the story after I post. I had to finish the next chapter to make sure this is correct and figure out two more to make sure I understand wth is going on. But here it is, double update. I hope that makes up for the long wait. I'm so sorry. T_T

On another note, I think I'm in love with Niroza and Akshay XDD (don't mind me).